


Just a Little Walk (On Beta)

by Zoya1416



Category: Vorkosigan Saga - Lois McMaster Bujold, WODEHOUSE P. G. - Works
Genre: A Little Proposition, Desert trek on Beta, Gen, Rejection, Weather Reports on Beta, con artist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-28
Updated: 2016-10-28
Packaged: 2018-08-27 14:55:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,910
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8406061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zoya1416/pseuds/Zoya1416
Summary: This is a crossover  fic starring Miles Vorksigan and P. G.Wodehouse's character Stanley Featherstonehaugh Ukridge. (Pronounced Fanshaw and YOU kridge.) On his first trip to Beta, a despondent Miles meets the unique Ukridge,  a schemer who will do anything to increase his capital—except, of course, work.Also--it's Miles/OFC, and very brief, bland sex. Not MIles/Ukridge.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by [sglottalk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sglottalk/pseuds/sglottalk) in the [Bujold_Ficathon_2016](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Bujold_Ficathon_2016) collection. 



> **Prompt:**
> 
>  
> 
> A canon character goes on a desert trek on Beta Colony. It could be about Miles' "nearly disastrous desert-trek" which is mentioned in _The Warrior's Apprentice_ , it could be about Cordelia going on a desert trek while training for the Betan Survey, or it could be about any other canon character going on a desert trek on Beta Colony for some reason.

Miles was in a dingy bar bitterly recovering from the nasty set-down he'd received from the Betan girl. Lana had seemed lively and fun, and knew the best places for exotic shows in the dome. Since Beta in general seemed outrageous to him, these had him popping his eyes even more, and he was certainly affected by them. He'd eagerly accepted the suggestion that he come back to her place, and then...and then...

She'd laid out on her silk-sheeted bed in her red-flowered sarong with nothing underneath, and he peeled off the short cotton shirt that was all that you needed inside the dome. She stared at him, but said nothing until he was trying to kick off his trousers.

“What are those metal things on your legs?”

Right, he knew this was coming and was prepared for it. “My skeleton was injured because my mother was exposed to a poison gas before I was born. It doesn't affect my genetics.”

She ran her fingers down the white scar lines on his arms, around his back, arms, ribs—and all those along his spine.

“So what are these then?”

“I had to have a lot of surgeries to repair my bones when I was younger. Everything's getting better now.” (Except for the legs, and he'd refused to have surgery (more surgery) on legs which could carry him well, even if he had to use braces. He hadn't even had to use a cane in months.)

“Oh. That's all then? Just that you're a little short and have had some bone surgery?”

“Yeah, but hey, I'm the same size lying down. Want to try it out?”  
Probably too forward for Beta, but he wanted to let her know how interested he was. Very interested. Pants-challengingly so.

“You want to fuck, then? Okay.”

He'd hoped for more enthusiasm—he wasn't exactly a virgin. Well. Actually he _was_ exactly a virgin. Palms did not count.

She lay back on the bed, and, not knowing what to do, he bent down and kissed her. She kissed back, but—she didn't seem interested in helping him. He'd thought there would be more kissing, hugging...talking, even, before the actual deed. Now he didn't know what to do, and awkwardly climbed on top of her.

“Do you want?—tell me what you like.” He'd read that much at least, in books his mother had given him since he was thirteen. Ask the girl what she wanted, pleasure her, before you expected her to do the same to you.

“Oh, I don't care. Just go ahead.” She smiled at him, finally, and spread her legs open. 

Right, well, if she didn't want anything now, well, then, forward momentum. 

He lay fully on top of her, kissing her hair, her neck. She did smile now, and encouraged, he reached a hand down to her breast. The nipple peaked up like it was supposed to, and he did the suck and lick he thought would pleasure her. Then he tried the other side. She still kept smiling, not saying anything. So—with still no evidence that she was aroused, but no evidence she wanted him to quit, he cautiously spread the folds open and entered her. She was warm, even hot, and although it had been his plan to last long enough to please her—whatever that would take. She rocked against him a few times and he came. Very much too quickly.

“I'm so sorry, you were so hot, I meant it to be better for you, I'll do better next time, just give me a bit.”

She smiled pleasantly again, not perturbed at all, and said, “No, I'm okay. Here, let me help you.”

Much quicker than he'd undressed, she had him dressed again, even put his braces on correctly.

“Don't you want me to—I really want to make you happy.”

She finally reacted then, a little laugh, “No, well, actually the girls wanted me to try you.”

“Try me...?”

“Yeah, they thought there must be some funny reason you're so short and if you were really—different—there.”

“What—did they think I might have tentacles or something?” He was angry and approaching furious.

She laughed again. “Well, not that weird, but, you know, Betans like to have many body mods. Besides the herms there are women with four—never mind. We just wanted to know.”

“Just an experiment then? I'm just an experiment to you.”

“No, a nice time, you were very kind. Here, let me take you back to your grandmother's.” She was openly patronizing him now.

“No. Just hell no. Tell your fucking coven that I'm just fine!”

He'd blundered out of her apartment to an anonymous bar, wishing he could drink as much as Ivan. But it was pleasant watching a bartender make muti-layer colored drinks, and he'd even ordered a little one, orange cointreau, red grenadine, blue curacoa—and was sipping the top layer. Not as good as he'd thought it would be. 

“What ho, laddie? How are you faring today?''

Before he could say anything, a tall man, 182 cm or more, with large ears and a loud voice, folded himself into the seat opposite Miles. Miles had seen many styles of bodies and dress in his first few weeks on Beta, but this one was a standard male, white. He was wearing gray flannel pants tucked into good boots, a collarless white shirt, and a jacket—a jacket similar to the type non-military Vor wore at home—well cut—but nobody had one in bright yellow.

“Who—”

“My name is Ukridge. Fanshaw Ukridge. It's really spelled f e a t h e r s t o n e h a u h, but we all pronounce it Fanshaw. I'll have what he's having—no, wait, I'm not trying to sponge, I'll pay for his, too.”

“I”—“That's all right, old chum, and what might your name be?”

“Miles Vorkosigan.”

“Now, as I was saying, Miles me lad, you look low in the barometric pressure. Down about a beaded lizard's height, and I'm not referring to the body structure. I can tell you're a swell fellow. How would you like in on a very good deal, so good it's practically coining money from nothing?”

Miles realized that he was talking to a con-artist, but he had no better place to be.

“Beaded lizards, as I was saying, are the next thing to coining gold. And you're from Barrayar, am I right, where you still value solid money. Gold is better than credit any day, because credit can rise and fall, but gold is always there.”

Miles tried to speak.

“Beaded lizards, I can tell you, are excellent at this moment, a top hat go—I know you've seen them as a proper lady's pet and accessory”—Miles had noticed and was intrigued by the little animals taught to cling to shoulders—“and also there is a fine market for the leather, more so when they get too big to be carried”—Miles had not known that, but suddenly realized the source of some finely textured ship's boots he had seen—“and here's the good part—you pay only a bit of credit for them. You buy them cheap, feed them from scraps—”

Miles opened his mouth to say that Beta recycled all scraps, when this fellow—Ukridge—winked and said, “Vat scraps always accumulate from restaurants, and there are places where it's cheaper to haul it away from them rather than pay for recycling. So that costs you nothing. You keep them in coops, which cost nothing, feed them scraps, and a lizard lays another egg each week. Say you have a dozen. The egg hatches in seven days, and then is the right size for a shoulder—the smaller ones last longer, of course, and then you have a 100% return on your investment just there. Then another twelve eggs in another week, say for the leather, and so on. And you still have your original lizards. Are you in?”

He had followed little of this flim-flam except to wonder what it was this—Fanshaw— wanted from him. Money obviously, but what else.

“No, no, not a cent. Not one cent. Just a companion to the sands.”

“The—sands? You're not talking about raising these animals outside the air locks?”

Ukridge looked disappointed. “Yes, outside. Tau Ceta is a desert world, just like Beta, cozy, warm. Even the atmosphere checks out. I already have the netting I need, and good stone glue. I have the first week's batch right here.”

He patted a large satchel Miles had not noticed.  
“You have live—animals—with you? How did you even get them onto Beta!”

Ukridge preened himself. “They were already here. Well, one of the Silica Zoo zookeepers has an—unfortunate habit of losing poker games.”

“But—a dozen lizards? Won't they be missed?”

“No, no, you misunderstand me. These are eggs just about to hatch. Which is why I need you. I need to check them twice a day, and was wondering—for no expenditure except moments of your time—whether you could check on them once a day? That's just to check that they're all percolating fine.”

It was the goofiest thing Miles had ever heard, and he was ready for something goofy. Especially if it earned money. Mother and Da would be very pleased to hear that.

“I'm on.”

“Great. Grab your mask and come with me.”

The Beta weather was warm and a little breezy, nothing much, and you didn't need more than a rebreather with noseplugs to walk out in it. No kitting out in a full space suit, with all the stops and checks that required. Miles also added and checked two extra face masks, extra noseplugs, and even three small oxygen bottles. They would hang in the utility belt at his waist. He also had netting and drag lines, a small carabiner with snaps, and, just to be complete, an 8 foot length of plastic tubing. 

Nothing except to step outside in the beautiful Beta sunrise. The clinging dust made sunrises and sunsets spectacular here. He looked carefully back at the dome, checking off the airlock's number and coordination grid color. Then he hesitated only a bit as he saw Ukridge step out smartly with two satchels.

“Here, this is the one without the eggs, if you'll be so kind.”

“What's in it?”

“Oh, nothing, really, just rock picks, some small, controlled explosives, a bit of plastiwire, some rock glue.”

“You're going to—blast holes in rocks to make pens.” Why hadn't he asked those questions before? Being drunk—depressed—those were the only excuse, and poor ones.

“Not big holes, no. nothing more than a meter tall and a meter wide. There is good soft sand to lay the eggs in. It will be fine."

“Do these—holes—have to be cleaned?”

“Only once they hatch and get just a few days old, so we can sell them. Twice a day.”

Miles glared at him.

“Well, actually just once a day is fine, but it's even better for them if it's done twice. Not that you have to, of course.”

If the trek had lasted even a few more minutes, he would have had something to say. Ukridge stopped a bare two hundred meters from the dome, ducking down a short incline to land before a set of small caves. He could see where Ukridge had already dug or blasted half of them out of the rock, and was glad he hadn't been called on to help then. But there was something peaceful about using a rock-drill to place explosives, at least in the state he was in. Explosions were very Barrayaran, homelike.

Quickly there was enough room for each egg to have its own space.

Ukridge and he set the little eggs in their soft sand nests. Then Ukridge picked up the fine plastic mesh and they set to work gluing it to to the front of the caves. They were halfway to the end when Miles felt a thrumming in the earth. He stood up quickly, in shock. When they left the dome, it had been sunny and a little breezy, typical for Beta in this season. It was the quietest part of the day, before temperature differentials cut in. But—and he was now bitterly cursing himself—he had forgotten to check the actual forecast, bumbling out into an untamed world on the lees of drunkenness, apparently suicidal depression, and the sheer thrill of an adventure.

There was a wall of orange-black dust approaching him. A haboob. Probably 3000 meters high, and moving—way too fast.

“Ukridge!” He screamed. “We've got to get back to the dome, now!”

Ukridge popped his head up, his face quirked up in a grin.

“Don't worry, laddie, just a few more minutes.”

He grabbed the other man's shoulder and wrenched him around. The color blanched from his companion's face and he surged up the defile.

The storm had been several kilometers away, but it was traveling at—too fast a speed. It overtook them when they were only 100 meters from the entrance.

Not too bad, he thought, it's just a bit of orange in the sky, a little dull and windier, and then it took them. Day changed to night instantly. He could not see more than a few meters in front of his face. At his side, Ukridge pulled out some cabling wire from his own kit, and snapped it onto the utility belts, linking them. Privately, Miles would have been happier forging ahead on his own, but Ukridge was taller and stronger. Providing he was facing the right direction. Miles' first rebreather signaled that it was nearly full, which it really shouldn't have done in 30 minutes, even when they were panting. Then the second mask pinged, at half-full.

He'd checked it, he knew he had. Grimacing, he flipped the quick snaps to the next one,and got out an oxygen tank.

Then Ukridge fell, ripping out the line from his first rebreather when he landed badly.

“Why—yours shouldn't have torn like that!” Miles screamed against the wind.

A shrug, which he could barely see, and something about “cheap.”

“Here, I'll get you up.” Ukridge pulled himself up, but he was gasping. 

“Where are your other masks?” There was no radio link as there would have been in a space-rated pressure suit.

Something incoherent this time. Miles looked. Ukridge's second and third masks were hanging open, completely exposed to the the Betan dust's howls. Really, really cheap equipment, he thought. Ukridge was sagging. Miles quickly opened his utility belt again, grabbed his second oxygen tank from his utility back, and hesitated over the plastic tubing.

“If it were done when 'tis done, then 'twere well it were done quickly.” He pulled out the second tank with its recessed opening, snapped open the tubing entrance, slapped in the tubing. He spliced it one third of the way to Ukridge and two thirds of the way back to him. If his second tank failed, they'd probably be dead before he could get the third out, but he wanted the extra part selfishly, seeing that he was the one who'd actually checked things.No extra breath masks for Ukridge, so he was directly taking oxygen. Miles was on his second mask; who know how the storm would last, and how much oxygen he could count on, with Ukridge gulping it in. 

He stopped. He'd forgotten—too drunk! Too enraged! Too—stupid! Even when dealing with a man he recognized as a con artist, he should have been more careful. His mind screamed. There were automated signalers in their masks. He hadn't turned his on. He swatted his open, and slapped at Ukridge to do the same. Then he knelt down, turning his face away from the screaming wind, and waited. 

It couldn't have been more than ten minutes before they were found, and another ten before they were cycled back through the airlocks. He sat in submission, listening to the blistering lecture from the dome safety officers, knowing he deserved every second of it. 

Beside him, Ukridge sat quietly with his arms crossed, also listening, although not in quite as submissive a posture, possibly even humming a little. He was looking at the ceiling of the security center's office. 

“Mr. Vorkosigan” said the senior safety officer. “You are barred from exiting any dome without a certified companion during the length of your stay here.” He nodded to her, numbly. It was unlikely he'd want to go outside again anyway.

“And you, Fanshaw—you are permanently barred from exiting, seeing that this was the second time you've needed rescue.”

Miles turned enraged eyes on his companion. “Second time?” he muttered.

“Oh, a bit of bother when I was exploring for, you know. Those salt flats can be deceptively alike.”

“Especially when you don't have a direction locator,” the senior officer said again.

“Direction locator? You went outside without a direction locator—twice?” Now Miles snarled.

“Cheap masks, what can I say? Now, I have a very good line on something inside the dome that might interest you, no money in, no risk”—and Miles broke his nose.

He had to use splints on his hand for the next two weeks until the Betan bone grafts healed, but it was worth it.

**Author's Note:**

> The plot Ukridge outlines is stolen directly from a similar Wodehouse plot with chickens.


End file.
